


How to Plant Daffodils in the Middle of Winter

by Marasa



Category: RedLetterMedia RPF
Genre: Angst, Body Warmth, Cuddling, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmare, Protectiveness, Shotgunning, horror movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:11:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marasa/pseuds/Marasa
Summary: Jay mumbles something just as Jason Voorhees stabs another camp counselor.





	How to Plant Daffodils in the Middle of Winter

They’re on the couch in the back room on a Friday night. No hard partying for them; just a few beers slowly going lukewarm and a series of horror movies they’ve both seen a hundred times collectively. 

They’ve exchanged the bright overhead light for a single lamp beside the couch and melted on the cushions after many hours. Somewhere along the way, Jay's elected to lay down with his head on the armrest while Mike's sunken further down in his seat, head resting on the cushion behind him, eyes half-lidded in tired, tipsy boredom.

Jay’s socked feet, which had originally been curled against Mike's thigh, are now deposited in Mike's lap. Not at all anticipating such closeness, Mike had answered with a grunt of surprise before surrendering once Jay handed him another beer.

His toes twitch every now and then. Mike's eyes flick down at them whenever they do, subtly entranced.

There had been a time in their history where something like this would have been unheard of, completely impossible.

In his early years when he had been the epitome of awkward with his crooked teeth and aversion to eye contact, Jay had the terrible habit of being completely dismissive toward any show of genuine emotion whether it be real upset, acute annoyance or drunken adoration on Mike's part.

Opposite of that, Mike had been much too open with his feelings, especially considering he had been in his 'punk' phase at the time.

The video store they worked the night shift at together before starting their own VCR repair business had been lenient on the staff wardrobe and pretty much everything else, so it was no problem when Mike had dyed his hair green on a whim. He'd come in with chains hanging off his jeans and studs on his denim jackets.

He thought he was really fucking cool, and Jay must have thought so too, though of course he would never admit as much, because not too long after, Jay was walking around with his own wallet chain.

It's kind of embarrassing to think about it now but Mike reflects back on that time in his early twenties when he had been a black leather badass and Jay had been his shadow, going out with him to go smoke a cigarette even though he didn't even smoke. 

Mike smiles thinking about how the second he would start packing his cigarettes against the heel of his hand on the way to the back door, Jay would come running after him with a hoodie in his grip to ward off the Milwaukee cold. Jay would stand out beside him, lean against the wall and hug his arms around himself as he watched clouds of smoke drift from his lips.

It had gone on like that for what seemed like forever, but then there had been that one night where Mike had decided to finally indulge him.

"You want one?"

Jay shook his head. "I don't smoke."

"Then why do you come out here?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because it's not fair you get a break and I don't."

Mike smirked. He extended the cigarette out to him. Jay's fingers rose to take it but then he paused, looked up.

"I don't know how. I... don't want to cough. I think the heat will make me cough."

"I can cool it down for ya. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"All right."

Jay's back was pressed against the frigid brick wall. Mike let the cigarette dangle from between his lips as he stepped through the snow to stand mere inches in front of Jay. He was so much taller despite them being the same age; Mike had to look down, Jay had to look up. The heat contained by Mike's thick jacket spilled out of the open zipper and he sure as hell didn't miss the way Jay shifted a fraction closer to it.

Jay blinked too hard up at him, teeth peeking out from his mouth in nervous anticipation, and Mike, the unaffected punk rocker too cool for school and all much else, melted.

"When I breathe out," Mike said around the cigarette, low and quiet, "you breathe in. Slow. All the way down. It won't burn you, I won't let it burn you."

Jay swallowed, nodded.

Mike drew in a deep drag of the cigarette. Its warmth filled his mouth, his throat. It was a little much even for him, but he took the brunt of it for Jay's sake.

He ducked down, so close now that Jay could probably smell his lack of deodorant, his cheap as shit aftershave, his hair dye. Jay's attention shifted from his eyes to his closed lips.

The body of smoke was almost too much to contain. It tickled the back of his throat and stung the edges of his tongue. Mike reached up and held Jay's chin. His thumb gently tugged at the skin below his bottom lip as a reminder to open.

Jay parted his lips. Mike craned in closer, turning his head a little.

Slowly, he parted his lips.

Cool, pale smoke rushed out of Mike's mouth and into Jay's. Mike watched Jay accept his breath through half-lidded eyes, thumb still balanced on his chin.

Jay's eyes drifted closed as he finished taking it in. His cheeks had been rosy from the cold, maybe something else. He held the smoke for a fraction longer and then he was exhaling shakily against Mike's lips still just a few centimeters away from his. And Jay's hands balled in the front of Mike's leather jacket held him tightly, pulled him forward.

Mike let the cigarette drop onto the snow. It hissed, then went silent.

Jay's eyes reflected the moonlight off the snow at their feet but even more captivating was that soft something twinkling in his gaze, a wordless yearning.

Mike leaned in.

Their lips were millimeters away now. They could taste the other's breath, had _shared_ a breath. The heat between their mouths was intoxicating and just as they were about to fight the cold together with their lips joined together, Jay turned his head so Mike's lips landed at the corner of his mouth.

Humiliation swept through him. It left him shaky and scared.

"I- I'm sorry-"

"It's really cold." Jay looked regretful as he looked down at his shoes. Still, he refused to immediately loosen his grip from Mike's jacket. "We should go inside."

They did. And then they didn't talk to each other for the rest of their shift.

It had royally sucked.

The next day hadn't been much better because when Mike went to apologize again for the misunderstanding? A fit of laughter.

"What?" Jay had snickered, waving him off and not looking at him. "What are you talking about, Mike? You're so weird."

It hurt him more than he thought it would and then he hated that it hurt him so much.

His brief resentment toward his best friend manifested in prolonged silence and disinterest in whatever he was talking about until he realized that was too mean and that he wasn't as heartlessly dismissive as Jay was.

So Mike dealt with it outside of work. He went to some punk shows, fucked some strangers. 

How times have changed. 

Punk isn't what it used to be and few strangers find him sexually attractive.

Mike and Jay's relationship has developed like much else, still in the safety of the friendship category but now considerably more close because they’re older and their relationship is no longer running the risk of imploding at the slightest sign of vaguely romantic interest.

The only unspoken rule is to not mention it, not even talk about it, preferably pretend like it isn't even happening when it's happening.

Talking about it is dangerous because talking about it makes it real.

And if it's real, it can end.

Mike blankets a hand over Jay's ankle and doesn't mention it even though he wants to say he wants to have his feet in his lap every night for the rest of his life.

Jay mumbles something just as Jason Voorhees stabs another camp counselor. 

“Hm?” Mike doesn't look up from the masked killer currently murdering teenagers on the television.

No clarification comes. Mike looks over. 

He smirks softly when he sees Jay is asleep.

His eyelashes are fanned out on his cheeks. His lips are parted. He looks like the very definition of relaxation but that's gone as soon as his brow pinches harshly. Jay gives another mumble, this time a little quicker and accompanied with a forced exhale. 

“Hey," Mike says. "Jay. Wake up.”

Jay’s hand trembles where it rests beside his head. His fingers grip for something that isn't there. Breath leaves from his nose, rushed and insufficient. 

“Jay,” Mike says, a little softer this time. “You okay?”

No response. Cold out.

Mike’s not surprised; he had been looking a little tired in the middle of Friday the 13th four or nine or twelve. Whatever. They had started at noon and now it was nearing three in the morning. Mike could definitely go for a nap but he can't even think about sleeping now with Jay like this.

His thumb slips under the edge of Jay’s sock. He rubs small circles over the knot of bone. 

Jay hiccups a strangled inhale and Mike is really battling with when to wake him up, if at all. Isn’t there a rule about not waking up someone having a nightmare? Or was that sleepwalking? 

Then Mike wonders if he's truly this stupid or can he play it off on the slight buzz he's feeling after his most recent beer.

Jay moans a pitiful whimper, long and ghostly. The helpless and haunting sound twists something deep inside Mike’s chest. He leans a little over the man currently curled up in his hoodie, hands covered by the XL sleeves and balled up in his too tight grip.

Jay hadn't even had to ask for Mike to shed his hoodie and hand it over when he had gotten cold about an hour ago. He used to do the same back at their first job, draping his leather jacket over Jay's scrawny shoulders and then Jay'd go parading around the video store in Mike's too big jacket like it was his own, or maybe the point was that it wasn't. 

Mike wraps his hand around his ankle, thumb still working its constant caress.

“_Shh_, hey, I’m right here.”

He sounds like a sappy asshole. He hates that he does, but how can he not when it sounds like Jay’s seconds from a total breakdown? 

Mike grabs the remote and turns the TV back to regular programming. He flips through the many late night channels hurriedly, unaware in his subconscious that what he’s seeking out is something that won’t freak Jay out too much when he finally wakes up. 

Game shows are hell on Earth. Sitcom families smile too much.

Mike settles on a show on the public broadcasting channel of a soft spoken old man instructing the audience on how to plant daffodils correctly. He’s like the Bob Ross of the plant world and it makes sense his show’s on so late at night because there’s currently a foot of snow outside. 

Mike sets the remote aside, looks back over to his left. A single tear slips from Jay’s right eye, drips off the bridge of his nose. 

All right, enough was fucking enough. 

“Jay,” Mike says and he says it in the same way some lovesick asshole would croon, ‘sweetheart’ or ‘baby.’ He squeezes Jay’s calf and runs his hand up and down it, doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing as he says, “Jay, wake up. C’mon, Jay. Jay!”

The feet in Mike’s lap are suddenly gone as Jay bolts upright. Wide-eyed but blind in his dazed panic, he lashes out at Mike with a flurry of weak swinging of his arms and loosely-clawed fingers. 

“Shit! Hey! It’s okay!” Mike tries his best to catch Jay's hands but he's moving too quick. “It’s just me, geez!”

The frantic flailing stops. Jay must recognize the voice deep down in his subconscious because his hands fall with his mask of surprise. Replacing it, an expression of soft fear that makes Mike want to hide him against his chest until he’s calmed down. 

Those hands once furiously scratching at Mike reach for him.

Mike meets Jay's groping hands with his own, doesn’t mind the tight squeeze of his fingers as Jay blinks harshly against the film of sleep still hanging heavy in his mind.

“You’re okay, Jay. You were dreaming, but it's over."

Jay tugs at Mike's hands, tries to pull him closer. He looks more awake now but he's still shaken up. 

"It's over."

Jay nods. Mike sighs out his nose.

The heater kicks on again and some embarrassing toy or VHS box falls over on the shelf against the wall. The subsequent sound is the loudest thing in the room for a split second but it's just enough to cause Jay to rush into Mike’s side.

He presses his face against the side of Mike’s neck while his left arm clings to Mike’s right shoulder, the other tucked against his own chest. It’s like he wants to bury himself under Mike’s skin, nothing more than a millimeter between them. 

“Hey, you okay? What’s wrong?”

Jay doesn’t say anything. He stays hidden against him, and now with his nose pressed against his neck, Mike can feel how cold Jay is.

Mike slowly wraps his arms around him. Holding Jay in his arms itches that weird instinct he has to protect him and keep him safe.

"Do you..." Mike murmurs after a few silent minutes, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Jay shakes his head.

His grip tightens on Mike's shoulder and Mike answers with his own grip tightening around his middle.

Jay feels… fragile. That’s the only way to put it. And it’s like only Mike knows how to hold him without crushing him. Anyone else would fuck it up because they don't know Jay like he knows Jay.

They sit like that, with Mike holding Jay in his arms, warming him up and keeping him close while Jay struggles somewhere between half-awake and complete exhaustion.

Whatever this is, it's genuine. And, surprisingly, it isn’t beyond awkward. Though maybe it would be easier if it was.

Mike almost gets twenty-three year old Jay's point of view because it would be so easy after tonight instead of talking about it to just do that stupid heteronormative thing of laughing obnoxiously over how Jay fled into Mike’s side and how Mike so readily accepted him and how they had held each other with so much care and gentleness and then they’d go to their respective corners of the repair shop and fume in confusion and fear of blatant intimacy.

But this feels shockingly natural, like where else would they be, who else would he be like this with? There is no embarrassment, no shame with Jay’s face tucked in against him and Mike’s arms around him. At least Mike feels that way but he doesn’t know how Jay feels.

He wants to know how he feels, needs to know. But that requires what’s they fear the most: words.

“Say something.”

Mike's never asked Jay to speak aloud about what they were doing as they were doing it before. Then he realizes too late that he’s just presented Jay the ideal escape from the conversation by setting him up for the ideal Pulp Fiction reference, and…

“Stay.”

That’s not the line. That’s not it at all. 

It must pain such a movie nerd to not respond with iconic words not his own, but this response is straight from Jay’s heart, uninhibited in the face of fear, unashamed for right now when he needs comfort.

He's never been so honest. There is nothing else to say.

"Of course," Mike answers. 

They'll stay here tonight. Together. It’s snowing anyway but even if it wasn’t, Mike still wouldn’t, couldn't, leave Jay alone like this. 

Five minutes later and Jay's shivering against Mike and pulling at his shirt at random intervals. Mike slips the warm hood of his jacket up on Jay’s head to offer some additional protection from the world. And when Jay pulls back just enough to peek up at him, his eyes are full of things unsaid but completely understood by Mike.

An apology. Regret. Embarrassment. Of the past, of the time wasted, of feelings refused and mocked.

And Mike thinks Jay's nightmare might have included the snow at night, silver moonlight, a shared breath of smoke.

On the television, the sun is shining. A cat sleeps on the grass beside a sweet old man planting daffodils.

Mike gently guides Jay back down to rest against his shoulder.

A few hot tears slip down the side of his neck. Mike turns his head so his lips rest at Jay’s temple. One arm wraps firmly around his waist while the other softly scratches up and down his spine.

“Stay with me,” Mike whispers, and he means out here, out of your head, out of the memories haunting you. “You told me to not go anywhere, so... that means you too."

It leaves his lips frighteningly gentle, and a part of Mike wants to freak out because it’s so easy to be gentle with Jay, so easy for him to want to keep being sickeningly sweet. 

Jay huffs a wet laugh against Mike’s pulse. It's so warm that it could melt all the snow in Milwaukee and bring out the sun at midnight.

They'll talk about it tomorrow; it suddenly feels like a valid possibility.

For now, though, both of them stay here, shielded from the world and the cold, quiet except for the television whispering promises of the changing seasons.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: stay in character, stay in character, don't make it too soft
> 
> *writes fic*
> 
> Me: ah fuck i can't believe you've done this


End file.
